All in the Wake of the Death of Albus Dumbledore
by Shyanna
Summary: As told by...


_Disclaimer: This story is entirely fan made, all publishing rights are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. Inc., etc. No profit is made from this story, outside of a little self-satisfaction._

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The rain is cold, pouring down in a thick sheet of icy water. I'm trembling, not completely from the cover of rain. Before me lie two white marble tombs, encasing two of the greatest wizards I've ever known. One I didn't know so well, the other was a friend my heart broke to lose. Between the two of them, I think I might collapse, but a hand on my back steadies me, and I'm able to recollect my thoughts. A jumble of emotions is swirling in the deepest abyss of my soul, a bittersweet ending. I suppose I should explain. 

_Two years prior :_

So he's dead.

After hours and hours of retribution passed on from one of the men I greatly admired behind a mired shield of painted flawlessness, I'm still dwelling on the fact that the great hero of the tittering 'light' has fallen.

I watched him die.

Redemption in the eyes of my savior is impossible now; I'll be joining the mad old coot in a short time lest the ratings of my former school teacher hold meaning. He's currently pacing, 'round and 'round until I think my eyes are beginning to cut a new hole in my head from the continuous motion, occasionally barking out a new position or a new punishment. I knew him; I knew what he was really thinking underneath that practiced face of guided lines and skilled espionage.

We were going to die too.

It's a cold thought, hard and meaningful in the most tragic of ways. I would never wed, or witness an heir to my tradition, the line would die with me. He would die a traitor to both causes, hated by everyone, with the smallest of exception of myself. Neither of us would be buried aside the heroes, if we get a marker on our graves it will be with disdain I'd expect. All of this shuddering reality, it shifted it's face and bore it's ugly head down upon us because of one mistake, one error in time and now Albus Dumbledore is dead.

Who stood to oppose the Dark Lord now? Harry Potter? A boy no older then myself, with no outward exceptions at anything in life, just a continuous roll of the die on that lucky number with each encounter, swift in the air, first name basis with the greatest people in our world, maybe he does have exceptions, but in the end, he's just a boy, the Dark Lord is a demigod in his own right, and Dumbledore is dead. It won't matter to me; I'll be cold and decomposing in my coffin when that battle comes about.

It wasn't a warming thought. I considered harshly over the past few months to abandon them all, to spill my innermost feuds to that half-moon spectacle bearing old man, and if I had, the night of his death proved my misguided fears to the death. He would have sheltered me, he would have protected me, and he would have stopped them. A childish notion, it still seems improbable, but what attracted me was that he would_try._

I have no loyalty to a...creature, which twists my proud father. I seen him, I saw the Dark Lord mutter the Cruciatus curse and I saw my father buckle beneath it's power, I'd never seen my father so much as blink in discomfort since my earliest memory. I saw my father cry that night while the curse's effects ebbed away. I had no choice but to return to Hogwarts in my disdain, my new hatred for the half-life thing that calls itself our master.

There was a rift in my fast-ending life, a rip I'm not sure was there before, maybe it was and I was just too blind to notice it. The longer we waited, the louder the clock ticked, the faster he paced, the shorter my life had yet to live. I was plagued by a twirl of thoughts, actions, promises, pleads, regrets and indecision. Potter, I would like to run to Potter and give him back the days I took away, I'd like to extend my hand in friendship all over again with a genuine smile. But I wouldn't, it couldn't happen, what's done is done and I'm dead to him anyway.

Weasley, I'd like to of punched him in the face and then handed him a sack full of galleons, just to see him glower at me and then trip himself up in shock, I do so love to get a reaction out of that one. His brothers are no fun, but Ronald Weasley is one worthy of my pranks if only to see his face light up as bright as his hair. Granger, I would have liked to of throttled her for being insufferable and heady, and then take her hand and lead her to the depths of the family library to see her smile in the way she does at her two closest companions, to smile at me.

Pansy, I would have liked to pick her up and hug her, simply because I don't think she's ever been hugged before. I wanted to take back every wretched deed I've done in the name of the Dark Lord and spit in his face, only to do them all over again in my own name, I am after all, a justifiable means to harass the people of the wizarding world. In my own name, they are mere pranks, in the light of the Dark Lords, I was committing spiritual murder - as well as digging my own grave.

In my thoughts I didn't notice the approaching footsteps, and the door to our little hovel was blasted away. I heard my companion scream in rage because we could not retaliate, magic of any means would alert the Death Eaters to our whereabouts and we would be dead. Though I didn't see the point at this rate, you'd think only a Death Eater had the lack of manners to blow off a front door. But I was wrong, instead I found myself staring at the face of the most unlikely man to be my savior. Rubeus Hagrid.

He grunted and twirled a large pink umbrella, cursing wildly when a loud pop cracked across the tiny hut we were in, and the likes of my only friend in the world was gone. I knew why of course. He's the one who killed Dumbledore, he is the reason my head was swarming and alight with such sickening notions of asking forgiveness and pleading for friendship. Hagrid interrupted my thoughts when he grabbed the collar of my cloak and drug me into the sunlight. I screamed and kicked, didn't he know the Death Eaters were about? Of course he did, the groundskeeper was foolish, lacked a cunning attribute for all it's worth, but he was not stupid.

He growled at me, spraying his ale reeking breath across my face, and I relented to his force. I was thrown brashly across the seat of a large motorbike, vaguely wondering how I'd missed the roaring engine upon its approach, and once he was settled in front of me, we were thrust into the air. It was a long ride back to the castle grounds of my youthful home, and along the way I mused some more.

My fate had written itself out, I was a pawn in this game between the master chess players. I didn't even have the rank of a named piece, Potter the Knight, Weasley a castle, Granger a rook, it didn't matter, and I was a dispensable piece of the puzzle that was the grand scheme of life. My destiny was shattered, the dreams I'd harbored had suddenly set sail without my approval into the horizon from which they would not return. All because the death of a man that could have changed my world. And I was sent to kill him.

When we landed, I was immediately bound in a heavy chain across my chest, wrapping my palms together roughly. I hadn't had a wand for nearly three months, since our escape that fateful night. The giant of a man picked me up and tossed my body across his shoulder, and I was taken ruthlessly through the corridors of Hogwarts. It was summer however, the student population wasn't to be at Hogwarts for another fortnight, and I was spared the humility of being seen.

For a short while anyways.

Hagrid disposed of me at the base of a statue, I'd never seen this before, and after muttering a password he grabbed my collar again and threw me headfirst into the depths of a room. I landed on someone, or rather, crashed into them and the both of us clattered to the floor. When I opened my eyes after the impacts dizziness faded, I was staring into the depths of my salvation. The color was green.

"Potter." It's the first word I'd spoken in weeks, and he stared down at me with a swirl of emotions chasing the other across his face. Hate, pity, trust, hate, confusion, hate, sadness, trust, hate. Years of rivalry will do that I suppose. He grunted and rolled out from beneath me, and then extended a hand to help me up. "You didn't have to throw him at me." He growled at the groundskeeper, and Hagrid raised a palm in apology. He took out his wand, and tapped the chains around me, which immediately dispersed.

My wrists were bruised and sore from the long ride on the motorbike, and he glanced awkwardly at the purpling areas of my skin. "Hagrid I said fetch him, not mutilate him." He glanced at my face, and I offered a tiny smile. Potter and his heroics, it's almost nice to be cooed after by the man I prayed had the power to save the world. He didn't return my smile, but he didn't scowl or threaten me, he simply gestured to a chair behind me, and I sat.

For hours I was questioned under the potent workings of truth serum, of course he asked my approval before it was given. I didn't understand how Potter knew my dispute against the Dark Lord, but his eyes told me he knows more then I would credit him for. I was on my knees at the bottom of a well with no way out, who was I to question the hero, our champion? One would say the events of recent past had broken me, and they have. The spirit I once wielded has been tamed, the wild dragons roar has been quelled to a snort, and I relented.

For several weeks I was taken from room to room, into the depths of the castle I didn't know existed. Granger appears after some time, and we awkwardly set foot onto a path of heated scholars' friendship. She counters my knowledge of the dark arts with those of common practice, and I'm amazed to find how effective they are. Every now and then she'll look at me and smile, elated that I'm not the dark prince they pinned me for. Of course they know that I was at one point, they all know. But because of my feud, I have relented and told my story in full; I'm a source they count within their own.

Weasley was a different story; he offered me not a hand, but a hurtling fist. Several times. Eventually he ceased, after several sharp conversations with Granger and Potter. I was not permitted into Hogwarts for obvious reasons; my Slytherin counterparts would immediately write home to tell them, so I was stashed in a little hovel of a house that Potter owns from the deceased fugitive Sirius Black. His godfather, I was almost frightened of how connected Potter really is with the current battle. Even his guardians are wanted. How the boy sleeps at night I'm not quite sure, but he wakes up the next day with a determined look and a wry smile.

Back to Weasley. Mid-way through the school year he visited me, and gave me the news that my father had been murdered. I don't think he expected me to have a reaction, at least not the one I did. My proud father, tall and elegant, the embodiment of aristocrat power, slaughtered like livestock. I collapsed, shuddering in a wild torrent of something akin to emotional agony. I didn't care if it was Weasley who was watching, my father was dead. My god was dead. My toll count had reached two. Albus Dumbledore and my father are dead. Damn the war.

Weasley looked immensely uncomfortable, and he dropped to his knees and patted my back lightly. I had forgotten he was even in the room with me by the time I smelled his cologne and felt the warmth of his hand on my back. I sobbed once, and it fell. Months of twisted pain and torture I'd held in my gut, refusing to show them what I was giving up for a chance at a freedom I craved more then anything. Weasley seen it that night. The following day, he yelled at Granger for snipping at my ruffled hair, I laughed. A free laugh, one of genuine humor. Who'd of seen it in a Weasley? He came to visit me a few weeks after, bearing a gorgeous set of robes that fit him, he looked highly polished, exclaiming proudly that someone encountered a Weasley that helped them through a rough time, and they had gold to burn. I grinned at him, offering a show of thought along side him as to whom it could be. He never did find out.

Time passed, into which the year anniversary of the great Albus Dumbledore's death was observed, and I was allowed onto the grounds for the first time in that long year to witness the service. I cried. In the shallow hole of my black hood, I sobbed silently, over the last twelve months the body count reeled, the violence exceeded my darkest nightmares, and here, peacefully slumbering in the great beyond, was Albus Dumbledore. And I was sent to kill him.

Potter approached me from behind, and drew me away. He held in his hand a long, thin box, it had been so long I was actually put out at what it could contain, and from its depth, he drew the wand I'd lost so many nights ago. I squeaked as he handed it to me, the warmth tingling in my wand arm. "Tonight, at six P.M., the Order is holding a meeting. Your binding initiation will take place then." He whispered, and I was engulfed in a scent that didn't quite reach the status of cologne, maybe Potter just smelled pleasant. Maybe it was just my reuniting with my wand, but I smiled at him then. The smile I'd wished those weeks ago I could offer with a genuine grasp for friendship. Potter smiled back this time, and I tipped my head towards the white marble coffer that enclosed our former headmaster.

"In his honor?" He nodded at me, and clasped my shoulder in a rough gesture of companionship. "In his honor, but also in yours. To a blind man opening his eyes, throwing his past to the winds, and becoming a friend." I stared at him for a few moments, a brash response all too ready, but I held it in check, and lay a hand over his wrist. "To becoming a friend." He smiled again and we walked together in the dusk hue, "You're still a prat." I laughed and nodded, and we went into the castle.

So here I stand, some two years later, staring in the cold rain at the two monuments side-by-side. The second is fresh, coarsely dug by Hagrid's tired hands. "To becoming a friend." I whispered, placing a ragged robe that at one point had been grand and beautiful atop the newest mound. I trace a finger along the letters of a name engraved in the marker settled above the grave, "In his honor, and your honor. I'll miss you both." I finish my small closure, and lay a hand on the young marble that is the entombment of a new hero. A tear falls down my face, but at my side a hand closes on my wrist, and I draw my lover to my chest in a fierce embrace. "Draco." she whispered against me, and I held her close, staring at the marble that would hold Ron Weasley for the rest of eternity. Hermione smells like tears and grief, her best friend was laid to rest the day before after all.

Potter is behind us, Ron's younger sister wrapped against him much like Hermione is to me, though they are audibly crying. I don't know how to place my feelings this night. I'm devastated, and hurt that I had to bury a friend I will never be able to replace, but at the same time, the tomb of who lies next to him, his death. It is the reason I have this day. It is the reason I enjoyed the company of Ron Weasley, it's the reason I am able to curl against the heat of a fireplace and wrap an arm lazily around Hermione Granger and read a book together. His death is the reason I call Harry Potter my best friend, Molly Weasley my surrogate mother, Remus Lupin my easiest confide. Perhaps the death of another great wizard will open the eyes of another lost soul, and give a chance at redemption in this long life.

All in the honor, all in the despair. All in the wake of the death of Albus Dumbledore.

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_A/N: This fic was posted as a response to a challenge issued at HPFF quite a while ago, so if you weren't around to see it, here it is. :)_


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